Word from the Mayans, and anyone wearing a tin foil hat buying copious amounts of baked beans, is that the world will end on the 21st December, 2012.
Now, granted the Mayan intel has been a little bit shaky over the years (Cortez anyone?), but just like a Ryan Tandy hot tip, this one might be too big to ignore.
There’s just too much at stake.
And, no, I’m not talking about your family, house, pet iguana or Tazo collection. I’m talking about sport!
Yes, sport.
If human kind is wiped out by the ultimate Mexican Wave, despite the best efforts of the delightful John Cusack, where will that leave a history of sport?
Up in the bloody air, that’s where!
Sure, at least we will sneak in one more Olympics before the four horseman of the Apocalypse hit the home straight, but just think about all the questions that will remain unanswered.
Will the Australian public ever truly embrace Michael Clarke? How many Origin series will QLD win in a row? Will Sonny Bill Williams ever crack the NBA?
What did really happen to Graham Langlands’ white boots? At what point in his career will Tim Tebow go all Lindsay Lohan on us? And what clown schedules the end of the world less than a week before the Boxing Day test anyway?
Not to mention the fact that if the full time siren blows in December, it will leave Australian sport dangling in a pretty tenuous position.
If the world had ended like it was rightfully supposed to have on NYE, 1999, Australia would have been sitting pretty with a host of world cups and world beaters to our name.
But no, someone had to go and step on the Millennium Bug, and instead of being crowned eternal reigning champs, all we got was some fireworks and that crappy Prince song played on high rotation.
And finally, if the world is really going to end should I, you know, do something?
Get fit? Let myself go?
Come out of my talent and ACL-induced retirement to trial for the Ormeau Shearers reserves team? Sell my house, and a couple of vital organs to try and scalp an obstructed viewing ticket to the Super Bowl?
My brain (and other important muscles) hurt just thinking about it.
I guess it’s lucky for myself and the rest of the world then that the whole end of the world thing is a bit like a South Sydney footy season: buckets of hype usually followed by a whole lot of nothing except mumbled excuses from the deluded and karate chopping coaches.
Even so, please excuse me if I spend next summer vacationing somewhere a little bit, well, cooler.
Like, say, the summit of Mt Everest.
Vic_Arious@twitter.com
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